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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25611775">Life Drawing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot'>greenapricot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Lewis (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Pining, but the piner doesn’t quite realise they’re pining, not a casefic but there's a case, pining with a happy ending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:47:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,604</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25611775</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Robbie blinks at the seemingly familiar curve of the model’s neck and the fine, close-cropped hair on the back of his head. It can’t be though. As ridiculous as the idea is, it makes more sense that James has a doppelganger with the same taste in robes than that James Hathaway is moonlighting as a life model.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James Hathaway/Robert Lewis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>161</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This all started when vita_s_west pointed out that Robbie doodles on his notepads next to his case notes and speculated about him taking a drawing class. Which lead me to wonder: What if it was a life drawing class and it turned out that James was the model? </p><p>The whole fic is written but I'm still poking at the later chapters. I hope to post them every three or four days. </p><p>A million thanks to Jack for the beta, Britpick, and pedantry.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Officer Enrichment Programme again,” Robbie grumbles, dropping the Continuing Education course prospectus on Hathaway’s desk. Predictably, Hathaway snatches it up and begins flipping through it, settling on the section on languages. </p><p>“They’re offering Ancient Greek,” he says with a satisfied smile.</p><p>“That’s you sorted.”</p><p>“What about you?” Hathaway looks up at Robbie, his face the picture of innocence, which is only a prelude to goading Robbie into signing up for a course this time around. He needn’t bother. </p><p>“It’s mandatory,” Robbie says. “Chief Super will have my hide if I don’t pick something, so you’re off the hook.”</p><p>“Careful, you might enjoy it.” </p><p>Robbie humphs at him and takes the prospectus back. He spends the next week reading it backwards and forwards and finds nothing that piques his interest any more than last time. In the end, he opts for a life drawing course with Innocent breathing down his neck the day before the selection deadline. It’s the only one that doesn’t seem like a waste of a string of summer evenings. If he’s going to be cooped up inside a classroom, he can at least pick something that doesn’t involve thinking as much as the day job. </p><p>Not long after he and Val had moved to Oxford, during one of his early failed attempts to give up smoking, Robbie had picked up the habit of doodling for something to do with his hands. Val had encouraged him to take a life drawing course with her to turn his idle doodling into a hobby. But as much as he’d meant to at the time, he never did take more than the one course. Work and Morse had a way of monopolising his time and there was never any guarantee of free evenings. </p><p>In hindsight, he wishes he had kept up with it. Val carried on going to classes on and off over the years, but he never had the time. Never found the time more like. He could have if he’d wanted to, but Morse calling him in at all hours was always more urgent. Still, years later, Robbie has fond memories of those nights spent drawing the various models who sat for the course.</p><p>To save himself the inevitable ribbing regarding nude models, Robbie doesn’t tell Hathaway what he’s chosen and Hathaway doesn’t ask. Not that looking at the model will be a detriment to his evenings, it will be nice to look at the body of someone alive for a change. But despite the intervening years, he still remembers that life drawing was more about trying to capture the nature of the pose as quickly and accurately as possible than the fact that the person in front of him wasn’t wearing clothes. He doesn’t fancy having to explain that. </p><p>Later that day, they pick up a murder, then a string of inscrutable burglaries. By the time Robbie gets the materials email from the instructor three weeks later he’s completely forgotten he’d even signed up for the course.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div><p>Robbie arrives a bit late for the first class, having foolishly decided to go home to change and get his supplies instead of bringing them with him to the nick. When he makes his way into the classroom, wrestling with his A1 sketchpad and the carrier bag from the art supply shop containing everything else, all the easels are occupied. Or at least they appear to be.</p><p>A hand waves at him from over the top of an easel at the far side of the room pointing toward the next easel along, which he can see when he leans around the other easels in between, is empty. The waving hand belongs to a woman in a long flowing skirt and a contrasting, but not matching, flower-patterned top. Precariously balanced on the small table next to her is a large box of the sort that’s meant for fishing tackle but is bursting with art supplies. </p><p>“First time life drawing?” she asks as Robbie drops his carrier bag on the table. A couple of pencils escape onto the floor through a hole in the bag. </p><p>“It’s not,” Robbie says, gathering up the fallen pencils. “But it’s been more years than I’d like to count.”</p><p>“Good for you, picking it up again,” she says. “I’m Sheila.”</p><p>“Robbie.”</p><p>“Nice to meet you, Robbie.”</p><p>“You too.” Robbie stuffs the pencils between his smaller sketchbook and the erasers so they don’t roll away again and props the large sketchpad up on the easel as everyone else has done. </p><p>“This is Stephen.” Sheila gestures behind Robbie. Sat at the easel on the other side of him is a kid—though he must be an adult based on the class requirements—with very pink hair, dressed all in black. </p><p>“Hey,” Stephen says, with a little wave, then goes back to typing on his mobile.</p><p>The instructor stands up from the small desk in the corner, introduces herself as Theresa, and does a quick registration check, going over names on a sheet of paper. She then launches into an overview of the six-week course, including disclaimers and explanations about life drawing and nude models. Robbie has to crane his neck around the giant sketchpad on his easel to see her. She concludes by saying that if anyone doesn’t feel comfortable drawing a nude model they should see her now to arrange to leave the course. A murmuring and shaking of heads travels through the students. Everyone stays seated. </p><p>“Excellent,” Theresa says, clapping her hands together. “Let’s get right to it. We’ll start with a few three to five minute poses to warm up and so I can assess where your skills lie. Everyone, please put your erasers away. We’ll be doing gesture drawing today, looking for the overall feel of the pose. If you make a mistake, keep going. Work around it and work it into your drawing, you may find it wasn’t a mistake at all.”</p><p>When Robbie looks up from trying to get his pencils to stay on the tilted table after putting away his erasers, there is a tall, blond man talking to Theresa. He’d been expecting the model to be a woman—all but one of the models from the course with Val were—but this is fine. Drawing a man is much less likely to be distracting anyway. The model has his back to Robbie, his head bowed toward Theresa as she speaks, and is wearing a robe that’s not dissimilar to one he’s seen hanging on Hathaway’s bathroom door. Robbie blinks at the seemingly familiar curve of the model’s neck and the fine, close-cropped hair on the back of his head. It can’t be though. As ridiculous as the idea is, it makes more sense that James has a doppelganger with the same taste in robes than that James Hathaway is moonlighting as a life model.</p><p>Then the model turns around. And it is, it is James—James who blushes while looking at the racy contents of victim’s computers during an investigation—striding up to the raised platform in the middle of the room, removing his robe and draping it over a nearby chair. He then steps up onto the platform, completely naked, with greater confidence than Robbie has seen him do almost anything outside of interrogating suspects. </p><p>James is looking away from Robbie, gazing up above the circle of easels to somewhere around the coving where the wall meets the ceiling. Theresa flicks on the lights that are positioned around the platform, and every long, lean line of him is caught in stark relief. James is striking, and it’s not only the fact that he is standing naked in a room full of people without a blush in sight. The tension he usually carries in his shoulders, his usual slouch, is nowhere to be found; as if he shed it with the robe. </p><p>Robbie realises that Theresa is talking, giving instructions for the first pose, most of which he’s missed while gazing at James. He glances over at Sheila. She’s got a pencil in hand and is making wide sweeps of her arm across the page. Gesture drawing, Theresa had said, the overall feel of the pose. Robbie picks up a pencil at random and turns toward his easel. </p><p>The size of the paper is rather intimidating but he picks a spot and begins sketching to keep from falling any further behind; the familiar curve of James’ neck, the jut of his shoulder blades, the dimples at the base of his spine. Robbie stops when he reaches the curve of James’ arse. James would surely be embarrassed if he knew Robbie was here. Robbie ought to feel embarrassed sitting here contemplating the curve of his sergeant’s arse. </p><p>Before he can decide whether to try to leave discreetly or continue drawing, Theresa calls for the next pose and James turns around. Robbie is sure James will see him until he realises that with the height of the platform, the position of the lights, and the size of the sketchpads, it’s unlikely James can see any of the students. Which is probably by design. Theresa places a wooden chair on the platform and James sits down on it, legs crossed at the knee and right arm draped over the back, his head turned so he’s looking over his right shoulder. His body is angled toward Robbie, his face in profile as he gazes off into the middle distance. It’s a position Robbie has seen James sit in many times over the years; on his sofa, on benches, in pubs, on the sofas of witnesses and suspects. This is the same as that, and yet so very different.</p><p>“Remember,” Theresa says, as she adjusts a light. “These are warm-up sketches. Don’t concern yourselves with filling the whole page, make multiple sketches per page if you like. We’ll work on drawing larger in future classes.”</p><p>Robbie is in the process of flipping to the next page of his sketchpad, but he smooths the paper back down, one small half-finished drawing of James’ back right in the middle of it, and begins again with the new pose in the copious empty space. He’s working on James’ profile now that it’s in better view—a more appropriate part of his sergeant’s anatomy to be focusing on—when Theresa stops next to his easel on her circuit of the room. </p><p>“You have a good grasp of form,” Theresa says. “But your lines are a bit stiff. Try loosening your grip on the pencil, let the shapes come through in your movements. See the line of his shoulder there, follow it down his arm. Don’t worry about details yet. You don’t need to be precise to capture the essence of someone.”</p><p>“Thanks, I’ll try that,” Robbie says. </p><p>Theresa flashes him a smile and moves on to Sheila. </p><p>The essence of someone. Robbie would have said he had a pretty good handle on what the essence of James Hathaway was until he walked into the classroom in his robe. He presents a facade to the world of a posh, buttoned-up, almost-priest, and a cleverer than average detective, but Robbie is under no illusions that what he wants people to see is all there is to James. True, he hardly ever lets on about his private life and when he does, it’s usually in riddles and sarcastic quips, but the longer they’ve worked together the more Robbie has seen beneath that facade. </p><p>Robbie likes to think the clues James has dropped about his private life over the years have been deliberate, letting Robbie see a bit more of who he really is as they’ve become friends as well as workmates. He’d thought he had the measure of those clues, that he’d puzzled them out into an accurate picture of James, but he’d never even caught a hint of this.</p><p>It’s not as if James owes Robbie any sort of explanation for what he does in his own time, but he can’t help but wonder how many of the nights James begged off a pint were because he’d gone to stand around with his kit off in front of strangers. Did he not tell Robbie what he was doing because he felt he couldn’t? Because he thought Robbie wouldn’t understand or would take the piss? Or is this nothing more than his habitual reticence?</p><p>This would be enough to make him begin to wonder if James is even in a band if he hadn’t heard a recording of them playing. Although, Robbie has no way of knowing for sure that the music he heard on James’ iPod was him. James has never invited Robbie to any of the band’s performances, which has always been a bit of a disappointment, realising that the limits of their friendship lie in pints after work, takeaway at Robbie’s, and the occasional meal cooked by James. Not that he’s not grateful to have what he does have. His life would be a whole lot lonelier without James’ kindness.</p><p>Robbie sighs. He’s been sketching without paying much attention. All he’s got on the paper is a much gone over wavy line that could be James’ shoulder and arm if he squints, and the outline of his profile which, now that he looks at it, is not in the correct position to line up with the shoulder and arm. The lines are nothing like loose. Not that it matters much if he does well in this class. Innocent’s directive was to attend a course, not to master the subject, but he hates to leave a thing done poorly.  </p><p>He adjusts his grip on the pencil, tries to hold it loosely without feeling like he’s going to drop it. After a couple of false starts and two more poses, Robbie manages to find a way to hold the pencil that’s both comfortable and looser, and it works. His lines begin to lose the tight, stuttering quality of the first few sketches, and Robbie sees now why Theresa suggested they make multiple sketches on the same page. It’s easy to see his progress like this. When Theresa announces that they’re going to move on to ten-minute poses, Robbie feels as if he may well be getting the hang of it. </p><p>It’s clear from the way James moves between poses without Theresa giving him much instruction—sitting with his hands resting on his stomach as he gazes into the middle distance, crouched down as if he’s working in a garden, standing with one hand on his hip and a tilt to his shoulders like he’s leaning against an invisible wall—that he’s had more than a little experience modelling. But as Robbie sketches the lines of his sergeant’s body onto the paper he can’t help but wonder why James is doing this. Is he in some sort of financial trouble? Is this how he affords those well-tailored suits on a sergeant’s salary? Modelling can’t pay all that well, can it? James seems to be enjoying himself, he looks relaxed up there on the platform despite the sometimes awkward poses and the fact that he’s starkers. </p><p>Robbie shouldn’t be so surprised to discover yet another of James’ talents. James Hathaway is nothing if not a collection of contradictions and downplayed competence. Why shouldn’t he be a champion rower, a talented musician, a walking wikipedia, an excellent cook, and a skilled life model? </p><p>It does feel a mite dishonest to have stumbled upon this particular talent of James’ without his knowledge, though. To be sitting here, rather enjoying the process of drawing him, when James is unaware that Robbie is even in the room. But the course is open to the public, anyone James knows could have signed up for it. If James has been modelling as long as his skill at it seems to indicate, someone he knows must have ended up attending one of the classes he’s modelled for in the past. He got to be prepared for that eventuality. </p><p>And it’s not that Robbie’s enjoying looking at James’ naked body exactly—though, if he’s honest, he’s not not enjoying it—but he is enjoying seeing James so relaxed. It goes some way to alleviating the worries he often has about the lad. Besides, this is not the first time he’s seen James naked. True, he’s never spent long minutes contemplating the exact curve of the spot where James’ thigh meets his arse or the shape of his calf while they’re in the changing room after their semi-regular squash games, but as Theresa said at the beginning of class; a large part of life drawing is appreciating the topography of the body as you would a landscape. That’s all he’s doing.</p><p>All the same, Robbie ought to try to get James’ attention, let him know he’s here. But with the sketchpad propped up on the easel, the height of the platform, and the lights obscuring James’ view of the students, he’d be hard-pressed to get James to notice him without disrupting the whole room. And what would he say if he did? How would he convey to James that he needn’t feel odd that Robbie is there, that he’s rather enjoying drawing him, and that he wants to keep at it, all while James is holding a pose?</p><p>The class is at least half over, Robbie will catch James afterwards, let him know he was here, and offer to drop the course if his presence makes James uncomfortable. That will be the minimum of awkwardness for everyone. For now, he can carry on appreciating the topography of the planes of James’ back and the defined rowing muscles of his shoulders and trying to recreate the shape of him on paper. </p><p>Robbie lets himself relax into sketching, his mind both focused and unfocused as he moves the pencil across the page. It’s been a long damn time since he’s done anything besides doodle on notepads at work, yet as the evening goes on, his arm and hand seem to remember the right twist of the wrist and tilt of the pencil to capture a particular curve. One pose flows into the next and soon Robbie’s filled multiple pages with sketches which, for the most part, bear at least a passing resemblance to James. Then Theresa is announcing the final pose of the evening, twenty minutes this time; James sitting on the chair, shoulders curved forward, elbow on his knee and chin resting on his hand, like that statue of the thinker. </p><p>Twenty minutes seems to pass almost more quickly than those first few short poses. Before Robbie feels he’s captured the pose, James is unfolding from the chair and Theresa is thanking him for his time. James wraps his robe around himself, steps down off the platform, and heads for the door without a glance up at the room. Robbie ought to follow him out, but Theresa is making a circuit of the room again, flipping through everyone’s sketches, discussing each student’s work, and making suggestions for what to focus on for next week. If he follows James now he’s going to look like some sort of old letch, rushing out after the model. Explaining that the model is his sergeant and he didn’t know beforehand that James was the model won’t make him look any better. Best to stay put for now and hope he can catch James standing outside smoking his inevitable post-class cigarette.</p><p>Theresa praises Robbie for his marked improvement since the first few poses—to which Sheila leans over and gives him a thumbs up and a big grin—and gives him some tips on how to improve upon the places he’s weakest. Once he’s gathered up his supplies and made it outside, doing his best not to jostle the other students who are standing around chatting when he passes with his giant sketchpad, the only sign of James is a lingering whiff of cigarette smoke in the air.</p><p>That night he dreams of James sitting on his sofa next to him, the two of them taking the piss out of some crap detective show. It’s no different to any other night they’ve spent at Robbie’s flat, except that at some point, amidst their laughter, James’ hand comes to rest on Robbie’s thigh and stays there.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Robbie is at his desk staring down the new protocol that’s been mandated for the upcoming performance assessments when Hathaway arrives with coffees and two small, brown paper bags. </p><p>“‘Morning, sir,” Hathaway says, depositing a coffee and one of the bags on Robbie’s desk. It has the tell-tale pleasing oily spots that mean it contains a croissant from the little bakery James passes on days he takes the longer route on his morning run. </p><p>“Nice run?”</p><p>“Mmm.” James’ mouth is already full of croissant as he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair; a not dissimilar motion to taking off his robe last night. There are no outward signs that James saw Robbie in class, which means either he didn’t, or he did and has chosen to ignore the whole thing. </p><p>Robbie fishes his croissant out of the bag and takes a bite of flaky, buttery heaven to distract himself from the fact that he now knows exactly what the curve of James’ naked shoulders looks like under the fabric of his shirt. When he’s finished the croissant he’ll ask which course James has chosen, even though he already knows it’s Ancient Greek, and that will prompt James to ask him what he chose. He’ll admit he was in the life drawing class, James will either turn red with embarrassment or make a sarky quip, or both, then Robbie will offer to drop the course, and that will be that. </p><p>He’s not even halfway through the croissant when Innocent pops her head in to “borrow James” for a few hours. They don’t have an active case at the moment, so off James goes, leaving Robbie to face the performance assessments alone. As James disappears out the door, Robbie has the sinking feeling that not bringing up the class first thing was a mistake. Ah, but what does it matter? James will only be gone an hour or two. </p><p>But an hour or two turns into four hours, then the rest of the day. </p><p>James sends sporadic texts, rich in wry observations, recounting all the running around he’s doing to assist with Peterson’s current investigation, but it’s not the same as having him there in the office while Robbie slogs through the list of new protocols and begins typing up assessments. The texts don’t break up the day the same way James getting up periodically to go to the canteen for coffee or out for a smoke would. </p><p>At points, Robbie almost feels like he’s making negative progress on the blasted assessments. He can only seem to concentrate for a few minutes at a time. He keeps finding himself gazing at James’ empty desk, his thoughts drifting to last night; the way the lighting had made James look like some sort of marble statue as he stood there on the platform, the shadows highlighting the definition of his shoulder and arm muscles, his thighs. Rowing muscles. Robbie wouldn’t mind watching him row sometime, see those muscles in action. Does James wear shorts when he rows? Robbie shakes his head at himself for being so easily distracted and returns to the task at hand. </p><p>Coming up on quitting time he’s only got two of nine assessments completed. The new system, “streamlined for easy understanding and compliance,” is neither streamlined nor easy to understand. His mobile pings and he picks it up hoping it’s James wanting to go for a pint. It’s James, anyway.</p><p>
  <i>Action man’s got me popping over to Kidlington on my way home from Abingdon. See you in the morning, sir.</i>
</p><p>Robbie can picture James’ eye roll at Peterson’s implication that Kidlington is somehow on the way from Abingdon to Oxford.</p><p>
  <i>Good luck with that.</i>
</p><p><i>Thanks.</i> James’ put-upon tone comes through as plainly in those six letters as if James were in the room with him. </p><p>For a moment, Robbie toys with the idea of mentioning the class via text, but no, James is currently driving around Oxfordshire in rush hour traffic. It can wait till morning.</p><div class="center">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div><p>The next morning, Robbie settles in at his desk and waits for James to do the same, gripes a bit about the performance assessments—for which James offers commiseration—and is preparing to bring up the class when Peterson darkens their door. </p><p>“Hathaway,” he says, all bright and chipper. “Thanks for your help yesterday.”</p><p>“No problem, sir,” James replies. Peterson probably thinks James is sincerely happy to help, but Robbie can hear the subtle note in the ‘sir’ that says otherwise. </p><p>“Mind if I borrow him again today, Lewis?” Peterson asks. “Chief Super said you still don’t have a case on.” </p><p>It’s a statement of fact but Robbie can’t help but feel like it’s an insult. And he does mind. He shouldn’t, but he does. He’s still got performance assessments to complete and James can’t help him with those, but unpleasant tasks are always more pleasant with James around to provide sarky commentary and a bit of moral support. He’s not looking forward to another day alone in the office working on something he doesn’t want to be working on. None of that is a good enough reason to tell Peterson no though.</p><p>“Aye, go on then.” Robbie manages to keep most of the annoyance out of his voice.</p><p>“Cheers.” Peterson slaps his hand against the doorframe and flashes Robbie a thousand-watt smile. “Meet you in the bullpen,” he says to James, then strides away. </p><p>“Bullpen,” James repeats with a sardonic twist to his lips. “Oh, joy of joys.” He stands and pulls his jacket off the back of his chair, shrugging it on. </p><p>“Try not to enjoy yourself overmuch without me,” Robbie says.</p><p>“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” That’s an entirely different ‘sir’ to the one he gave Peterson. James steps out the door, then leans his head in again, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Don’t miss me too much.” </p><p>“As if,” Robbie replies with a smile and a dismissive wave. James’ smile widens and then he’s gone. The slight heat Robbie feels on his cheeks must be down to the coffee he’s drinking.</p><p>The performance assessments are, if possible, even more of a slog than they were the day before. With no texts from James to provide a distraction, the day drags and then continues to drag. Robbie gets his own crap canteen coffee. Then, unable to face going back to the assessments, he organises the drawer in his desk that’s been accumulating odds and ends for months, sorts through his pens and bins the ones that don’t work, gets another cup of coffee, and does a bit of long-overdue filing. When he finally forces himself to return to the assessments, they’re no less like pulling teeth for all the hours he’s spent avoiding them. </p><p>Every member of the team that he’s charged with writing an assessment for has done excellent work over the past half-year, Hathaway most of all, but when Robbie tries to put the facts concerning his performance into complete sentences everything falls apart. Hathaway would be good at this. Someday he’ll be an inspector and breeze right through assessments just like he’s written Robbie’s speeches in the past. </p><p>Why is it so hard to articulate his thoughts into words on paper? Or well, in a form on the computer. But still. Maybe he should try writing them out on a notepad first. If James were here he could talk through the DC’s assessments with him, get him to take notes even. That would help get the ball rolling. Innocent had presented the new protocols as something that would streamline the process, making assessments simpler and faster to compile; fill out this simple form and you’re done. The form itself may be simple, but typing text into all the blasted boxes when half the questions seem to be asking the same thing and answers are required for every one is nothing like simple. </p><p>Hathaway’s assessment, at least, should be easy. He’s indispensable, exemplary, and all manner of other complimentary adjectives. He’s kind and thoughtful and supportive and at the same time won’t back down when he believes that he’s right, and more often than not he is. He’s good with the slight oddballs they come across over the course of an investigation; putting them at ease, drawing them out, letting them see that under the flash suits he’s a kindred spirit. </p><p>He’s fiercely intelligent, has a dry wit that never fails to make Robbie chuckle, and is loyal almost to a fault. He consistently goes above and beyond what’s required for the duties of a sergeant, even keeping Robbie company of an evening and occasionally cooking him dinner. He was gentle with Robbie in the early days when his grief over Val threatened to drag him under, doing just what Robbie needed when Robbie himself had no idea what it was that he needed. And he still does that in so many small ways. </p><p>But when Robbie tries to fit all that into the form boxes, it sounds trite and doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of what he wants to say. The truth is, James isn’t only Robbie’s sergeant, he’s also Robbie’s closest friend and he can’t exactly put that in a performance assessment. It’s difficult to separate James his friend, who spends occasional evenings on Robbie’s sofa with beers and takeaway watching crap telly, from James his sergeant, who brings him coffee and croissants and pulls unasked for all-nighters because Robbie thought something wasn’t right.  </p><p>Robbie sighs and closes the file. He’ll move onto the next assessment and come back to Hathaway once he’s got a few of the others done. It’s only after he leaves the form page that he discovers that the system doesn’t save the information entered until the final ‘submit assessment’ button is pressed. </p><p>“What an easy to use and streamlined system,” he grouses, only to look up and realise that he’s said that out loud, to James, and James isn’t here. Robbie sighs again and carries on.</p><p>The next assessment is only marginally less frustrating, but he does make some slow and stilted progress. Still, it’s enough to make him consider retirement again if only to get out of performance assessments for good. But if he’s missing James’ presence when it’s only been a few hours since he saw him—though the assessments have made those hours drag at a torturously slow pace—how much would he miss him if they no longer worked together? And how ridiculous is it that after only a day and a half he’s wishing for a murder so he can have his sergeant back?</p><p>Robbie regrets the thought immediately when he’s called to a sudden death in the early afternoon. </p><p>Despite the grimness of the scene—a ground floor flat in an estate that looks to have last seen better days twenty years ago—James is in high spirits, pronouncing <i>sir</i> with that particular tone and slight quirk of a smile that makes it sound like James may have missed Robbie as well. Though of course, he has, he’s been working with Peterson. </p><p>Caught up in the case, Robbie all but forgets about the life drawing course, save for the odd moment when James tilts his head just so while scrutinising a piece of evidence and Robbie finds himself both wanting to touch and to draw him. But the case doesn’t give him any better opportunities to bring up the class than the previous two mornings. True, he could create an opportunity, but work is work and the course and James’ part in it, are very much not work. It doesn’t seem right bringing up James’ life modelling in the middle of a murder investigation. Besides, except for a brief drive across town which is spent going over the scant evidence they have so far, they are around other people for the rest of the day.</p><div class="center">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div><p>Robbie means to say something the next day as well, and the day after, but the more time that passes, the harder it becomes to admit he was in the class. He’s waiting for a chance to bring it up that won’t be awkward, or any more awkward than it’s already going to be. He’s got no good reason not to have said something earlier, and four days on it looks nothing but strange that he hasn’t. It looks as if he’s hiding something, but he’s not. He hasn’t found the right way to broach the subject is all.</p><p>He considers asking Laura for advice, but he already knows what she’ll say. She’ll laugh and tell him to just tell James already, give him that same look she gave him the day he called James his awkward sod. Or she’ll get serious, take a sip of her gin and tonic, put her hand over his and ask him if there is a reason besides the timing of the case why he hasn’t told James yet. Which of course there isn’t. Don’t be daft. </p><p>The rest of the week flies by, the case keeping them busy right through the weekend. Robbie finds himself watching James at odd moments during their investigation; the way his fingers flex when he first lights a cigarette, the tilt of his shoulders when he leans against the doorframe while listening to one of their suspects recount a suspiciously convenient alibi, how the trousers of that one particularly well-tailored suit cup his thighs and arse as he strides off to track down a witness. </p><p>The fact that James is an attractive man hasn’t escaped Robbie’s notice over the years, but he does seem to be picking up on it more this week. He’s almost distracted by it at times. It’s as if Theresa’s instructions to appreciate the human form are stuck in his head, and James having been the model, Robbie’s eyes keep being drawn to him. </p><p>When the night before the second class rolls around and they have neither solved the case nor has Robbie brought up the fact that he was in class, he decides the thing to do is invite James back to his for a takeaway. Let James see the giant sketchpad leaning against the wall in the hallway—for lack of a better place to store it—and put two and two together on his own. </p><p>They’ve made good progress today, three of the witnesses they interviewed were even helpful, and they leave the station at something approaching a reasonable hour, the two of them walking in step toward the carpark as James lights a cigarette. </p><p>“Takeaway at mine?” Robbie asks. “There’s a bottle of beer with your name on it.”</p><p>“I’d love to,” James says, looking genuinely disappointed. “But I’ve got Ancient Greek tonight.”</p><p>“Ah. You’re in for an evening of fun, then.”</p><p>James rocks on his heels and flashes him a smirk as he blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Indeed.”</p><p>This is the opportunity Robbie’s been waiting for, but he can’t seem to say the thing out loud that he’s been trying to say all week. The truth is, he’s been looking forward to drawing James again, to seeing him look so at ease up there on the platform after the frustrations of their current case. One more class won’t hurt. The course is open to the public, Robbie being there is no different to any other random person being there. And maybe the fact that Robbie hasn’t found the right moment to bring it up is a sign. Not that he goes in for that sort of thing.</p><p>He’ll sit at a different easel this time, one that’s closer to the platform and will give James the chance to see him. Then Robbie won’t have to try to sort out how to bring it up. That’s definitely the best approach. James will notice him at some point during the class and wait for him after, and then Robbie will explain. </p><p>“Another day?” James offers into Robbie’s silence.</p><p>“Right. Of course.” </p><p>“Everything all right?” James squints at him, brow scrunching in concern. </p><p>“Fine, yeah. Just a bit knackered.”</p><p>“Better get home and get your beauty sleep.” James takes a last puff of his cigarette and drops it to the tarmac next to his car, grinding it out with the toe of his boot. Robbie doesn’t even say anything about the litter.</p><p>“Aye, need all the help I can get.” </p><p>James gives him a strange look, like he’s about to disagree, but then smiles and says, “Good night, sir,” and gets into his car. </p><p>Robbie’s still standing next to his own car wondering what’s wrong with him when James drives off. He shouldn’t be putting so much thought into this, it’s not that big of a deal. With the way the case has been going, it’s likely neither of them will make it to class anyway, assuming James is even the model two weeks in a row. The course he took with Val had a different model every week. Chances are, James won’t even be there tomorrow, and if James isn’t the model then there’s no need for Robbie to say anything at all. </p><p>He gets a curry on the way home and drinks the beer he would have offered James as well as the beer he would have drunk himself. Coming up on bedtime, he indulges the urge to drag the sketchpad out of the hallway and onto the coffee table. It takes up the whole table and almost knocks over the empty beer bottles. Flipping through the pages, it’s obvious that his technique improved even during one two hour class. Robbie wonders how much it’s possible to improve after a second, what poses James will choose this week if he’s there. The truth is, he’s more than half hoping James will be that model again, he’d like the chance to draw James a second time now that his technique has improved a bit. Robbie sighs and closes the sketchpad, clears up the empty bottles and takeaway containers, and takes himself off to bed.</p><p>When he closes his eyes he can still see the lines of his drawings; the angle of James’ shoulder blades, the curve of his arse, the jut of his hip. The shadows falling across his penis. Robbie had averted his eyes, for the most part, left that area of the drawing a shadowy smudge, but lying in bed with his eyes closed he can picture every part of James in full detail. If he were to get up and find his pencils he could draw the delicate shape of him from memory.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the not quite dark of very early morning, Robbie wakes from a dream in which only he and James are in the classroom. James beckons Robbie up onto the platform with him, sits him down in the chair, and stands tantalisingly close, inviting Robbie to use his fingers to trace the same lines on James’ body he had drawn with his pencil on paper. Robbie is half hard, hand drifting downward before he’s awake enough to stop himself. His face heats with embarrassment even though there’s no one there to see.</p><p>It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself as he lies there in the half-light, willing his erection away. It’s been a long time since he’s been with anyone or seen another person without clothes on—save for James in the changing room after their squash games, a little voice in the back of his mind supplies. It’s perfectly normal for the subconscious to react to such stimuli. It was only a dream. It doesn’t have any bearing on his waking life.</p><p>All the same, Robbie decides he might as well get up, get into the station early, and start going through the files Tech recovered from their victim’s laptop. Somewhere in there must be the evidence that will point definitively to one of their two main suspects. </p><p>There is. </p><p>He and James are flat out all day, each chasing down separate leads, leaving Robbie no time to dwell on inappropriate dreams or anything else about life drawing. As the end of the day nears, it’s beginning to look as if Robbie won’t make it to class. Which, although he has been looking forward to it, is probably for the best. Once they’ve solved the case they can have that takeaway at Robbie’s. It’ll be a bit awkward telling James he was in the class when more than a week has passed, but they’ll have beers and a laugh about it and everything will be sorted. </p><p>An hour before class is set to start, James rings Robbie to say he’s finally got solid evidence and is bringing in suspect number two. </p><p>“Don’t think he’s quite ready to talk yet,” James says when Robbie meets him in the corridor outside the holding cells. He hands Robbie a fat folder with papers sticking out of it at odd angles. “You should get up to speed.” </p><p>“You found all this today?” Robbie takes the folder, flipping through the first couple of papers.</p><p>“Stored in a filing cabinet in his office.”</p><p>Robbie huffs out a laugh. “Makes our job easier anyway.”</p><p>“Yep. Tomorrow morning, then? I’ve got to go.” James says, looking a mite shifty. “Sorry to—” he gestures at the folder. “Band practice,” he adds, unconvincingly. </p><p>Robbie brandishes the folder. “This’ll keep me out of trouble.”</p><p>“Yeah. ‘Night, sir,” James replies absently, patting down his jacket until he finds his mobile. He pulls it out and begins tapping out a text as he strides off down the corridor. </p><p>Maybe James is tonight’s model after all. Robbie ought to have said something, but with James rushing off and… well, he did say he had band practice. Not very convincingly, but that could very well be nothing but the fact that he was in a hurry. </p><p>Presumably James, as the model, has access to the list of students for the course. And if so, then he already knows Robbie was in the class and hasn’t said anything for the same reasons Robbie hasn’t. Which means the transparent lie about band practice was James giving Robbie an opening to bring up the class, and Robbie hadn’t taken it for what it was. James will take that as a sign that Robbie would prefer to not speak of it. And that’s got to be what James would prefer as well. </p><p>Not mentioning it is the best and simplest course of action. Robbie will sit at a different easel as he planned, and if James does see him but doesn’t bring it up tomorrow then Robbie will know he’d prefer not to talk about it. Dead simple and nothing worth worrying over. </p><p>It’s an excellent and well thought out plan except for the fact that once again, Robbie is the last to arrive to class, leaving him no choice but to take the same easel as last time. He settles in and plunks a plastic takeaway container full of pencils on the table—he never did make it back to the art supply shop to get a proper box. Sheila gives him a raised eyebrow when she sees it, but it does keep the pencils from rolling off the table. </p><p>“Tonight we’re going to focus on light and shadow,” Theresa says, as Robbie is propping his sketchpad up on the easel. “I want you to create your drawings by building up fields of dark and light, no outlines, paying attention to the negative space and the shapes created by the light. Expand upon last week’s exercises and think of the body as a landscape described by the topography of light and shadow. Choose a soft pencil or charcoal for better contrast.”</p><p>James comes through the door then, his robe wrapped around him, looking more harried than he had last week. Robbie pokes around in the takeaway container for his softest pencil. </p><p>“We’ll start with a few shorter warm-up poses again,” Theresa continues. “Then move on to longer poses as the evening goes on.”</p><p>Theresa turns to say something to James. They talk for a moment, then he steps up onto the platform and removes his robe, letting it slide off his shoulders and down his arms, then drapes it over the chair. He sits in the chair, pulling his right foot up onto the seat, and resting his right hand and chin on his upturned knee, the tension easing from his shoulders as he settles into the pose. </p><p>“These first few poses will be five minutes each,” Theresa says as she adjusts a light. “Try to capture as much of the pose as you can in that time. And remember, don’t concern yourselves with outlines or details, only light and shadow.”</p><p>That’s Robbie’s cue to relax as well. If James does know he’s here he’s clearly not bothered, and if he doesn’t he’s unlikely to see Robbie where he’s sitting anyway. Robbie will figure out some way to bring it up without bringing it up tomorrow, make sure he’s the one to drive and leave the sketchpad in the back seat so James can see it. Then James will be free to mention it if he wants or, more likely, never say a damn thing. For now, he might as well enjoy drawing James while he can.</p><p>Robbie looks up at James, contemplating where to start. He is turned mostly away from Robbie, giving him an excellent view of the lean muscles of James’ thighs; a lovely contrast between his left leg relaxed on the seat and his right bent up, muscles flexing. The fine blond hairs on his legs just about glow in the light, like he’s some sort of ethereal painting of a saint. But Robbie’s not supposed to be focusing on details.</p><p>Light and shadow. James’ thigh is in the light, there are shadows around his hip, a mix of light and shadow across his torso. But how to treat his nipple? It’s in the light but darker than James’ skin. Robbie gazes at it for a moment, then moves on without having made a decision, filling in the shadows under James pectorals instead. Before he knows it, Theresa is calling time.</p><p>For the next pose, James stands with his bum resting against the back of the chair, his hands on either side of his hips, and his head bowed. He’s turned toward Robbie now, and Robbie has a very clear view of the most intimate parts of James’ anatomy; not dissimilar to the view in his dream when James was standing while he sat in the chair. Thinking about that is nothing like helpful. This is about the process of drawing, not about who and what he’s drawing. That’s the part that he enjoyed during the previous class; the near-miraculous fact that by moving his hand in a certain way he can create an approximation, on paper, of what he sees in front of him. </p><p>He starts with James’ bowed head, the curve of his neck catching the light, and the shadow of the room behind, then his shoulders, hunched forward a bit and casting shadows down his chest. Robbie works his way down, not dwelling too much on any one part of James as he lets his hand recreate what he sees.</p><p>Soon, Theresa is calling for the next pose, then the next, and then a series of somewhat longer poses. Robbie lets himself get lost in drawing, falling into the same relaxed state he found himself in at the end of the previous class. When Theresa calls for a short break before they begin long poses, Robbie flips through his sketchpad, marvelling again at his ability to capture James on paper with nothing but a pencil and his own hands. There seems to be something to this whole light and shadow thing, he feels as if he’s learning something. </p><p>The first of the longer poses is twenty-five minutes. James stands, right hand on his hip, left hand relaxed and resting against those fine blond hairs on his thigh. His chin is raised, gaze focused up and off to the left as if he’s the captain of a ship scanning the horizon. His body is angled so that Robbie has an excellent view of his profile, the lovely curve of his shoulders and neck, and a nice view of his arse.  </p><p>Looking at him like this, it’s impossible to escape the fact that James is beautiful. And it’s not only the lighting. Robbie’s mind wanders while he does his best to recreate the shapes of the shadows and planes of James’ body, and it occurs to him that these thoughts aren’t entirely new. It may have been more idle observation than open appreciation in the past, but he’s had the same fleeting urge to touch the spot at the back of James’ head where the curve of his skull meets his neck off and on for years; the skin there not quite as tan as the rest of him right after a haircut, the short hair looking soft and vulnerable when his head is bowed.</p><p>Robbie moves his pencil across the paper and down James’ body, filling in the shadow that delineates the curve of his arse and where the light catches on his upper thigh, the intricate shadows of his fingers resting on his hip. The landscape of James Hathaway. It’s an interesting idea, thinking of people as landscapes that are also part of a larger landscape, not separate from it. In the end, doesn’t light fall on everything in the same way?</p><p>He chuckles to himself. James would have a laugh at his amateur philosophising. One life drawing course and now he’s carrying on as if the world is somehow different. Or at least Robbie would have thought James would laugh, but there he is standing in the spotlights while strangers draw him. Maybe he wouldn’t laugh at all. Maybe he’d have some salient points to add. Does James only model, Robbie wonders, or does he take life drawing classes as well? He’s probably unreasonably talented at drawing like everything else he tries his hand at.  </p><p>Theresa passes by Robbie’s easel on her way round the room. Instead of murmuring light praise and moving on as she has every other time, she stops, makes a pleased humming noise and says, “Robbie, this is exquisite.” </p><p>James stiffens almost imperceptibly, his shoulders tensing a smidgen, causing a slight shift in the shadows that fall across his back. His head turns the tiniest bit, gaze flicking down out of the corner of his eye to where Theresa is standing, and then to Robbie, who is not quite hidden by the sketchpad on the easel from this angle. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second before James’ gaze returns to his customary far away look. </p><p>It happens so fast Robbie is sure Theresa hasn’t noticed, continuing to compliment him on how much he’s improved even from today’s first few drawings, and how well he’s got a handle on capturing the shadows. When Robbie thanks her and picks up his pencil again he can see the tension in James’ jaw, his shoulders are no longer relaxed, and there is a slight twitch in the fingers of his left hand where they rest against his thigh. </p><p>There’s his answer to whether James knew Robbie was here. What was he thinking, not saying something earlier? Letting James find out by seeing Robbie during class? This is the worst possible way for James to find out. Now he’s up there thinking God knows what and Robbie can’t even explain. James is clearly uncomfortable, but James being James, he won’t disrupt the class, he’ll stand there silently trying not to show his discomfort, waiting for the moment when he can leave. </p><p>The final pose of the evening is almost unbearable, James sitting in the chair, turned completely away from Robbie, that new tension still evident in his shoulders. Robbie has the sinking feeling that this wasn’t the pose James had planned. He’s been alternating the direction he’s facing all evening, no doubt to give the students equal opportunity to draw every side of him, but of course, he’s not going to face Robbie now. </p><p>Not only has Robbie ruined this for James and himself, he’s ruined it for the other students as well. James is tense, shifting with the nervous ticks Robbie has noticed over the years but have so far been absent while he’s modelling; his fingers twitching in a way Robbie knows means he’s longing for a smoke, a periodic tensing and relaxing of his shoulders that never quite returns to the relaxed state he was in before he saw Robbie across the room.</p><p>Robbie is hardly able to concentrate on drawing as he tries to work out if he can make it out of the classroom quickly enough to catch James and how he’s going to smooth things over. He should have known better. He did know better, but he was selfish, wanting to continue to draw and, yes, to draw James in particular. But he’s put an end to that now, and possibly to James’ trust in him as well. </p><p>When Theresa calls time on the pose, James snatches up his robe and leaves so fast he almost upends the chair; none of the usual languid, post-pose stretching. He glances over his shoulder as he pulls the door shut behind him, and Robbie catches a glimpse of undisguised hurt as the door swings shut and he’s gone. </p><p>Robbie barely hears Theresa’s comments to the other students during the end of class discussion, focused on the door James left through, wondering if he’s already left the building. Sheila and Stephen are chatting back and forth over him but he can’t bring himself to join their conversation. He sends James a quick text while Theresa is gushing over the progress of a student on the far side of the room: <i>Wait for me outside. I can explain.</i> But can he explain? What reason is he going to give for not telling James he was there right away? How can he tell James how much he’s enjoyed drawing him when that’s how James reacted to seeing him?</p><p>“What happened?” Theresa asks when she reaches Robbie’s easel. The question isn’t unkind, but his final drawing isn’t up to the standard of the earlier ones. It’s not even up to the standard of the first few short poses while he was still getting the hang of the whole light and shadow thing. The end result is wonky and somewhat stilted. Where his previous drawings had smooth fields of shadow and contour, his lines are now broken up by obvious hesitation, the entire thing unsure and unrefined.</p><p>“Hand cramp,” Robbie mutters. Theresa says something about not being discouraged by setbacks and suggests a couple of hand exercises for Robbie to try, none of which he really takes in, waiting for the moment when he can pack up his things and hopefully make it outside before James leaves.</p><p>James is, of course, not waiting outside. He hasn’t responded to Robbie’s text and he neither answers when Robbie rings him or responds to any of Robbie’s subsequent texts. As much as he had meant to all week, Robbie doesn’t want to have this conversation at work, especially now that James is so obviously angry with him. Out of desperation, Robbie drives by James’ flat on his way home. The windows are dark and he doesn’t see James’ car parked in the street. He knocks on James’ door anyway and is unsurprised when he gets no answer, which doesn’t mean James isn’t in there quietly seething in the dark. He even tries the White Horse, but there’s no sign of James there either. And of course, there isn’t. He wouldn’t go somewhere he’d be so easily found. Robbie forces himself to drive home instead of going round every pub in Oxford in search of someone who doesn’t want to see him. </p><p>Robbie rings James an embarrassing number of times throughout the evening, leaving insufficient explanations and inadequate apologies on his voicemail. Eventually, he gives up and goes to bed; unable to shake the fear that his hasty messages have only made things worse. He dreams of James standing in the middle of New College Lane, naked as he had been on the modelling platform, shouting at him about violations of trust, anguish and hurt and betrayal plain on his face as he tells Robbie to go away and that he doesn’t want to look at him. Robbie wakes gasping, filled with an overwhelming sense of loss.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>James is sitting at his desk when Robbie arrives the next morning—later than usual after a fitful night’s sleep plagued by intense dreams of loss. He feels like he’s been through the wringer and James rather looks like he has, but James is here at least, that’s got to count for something.</p><p>“‘Morning,” Robbie says, testing the waters.</p><p>“Good morning, sir,” James replies in his most polite and standoffish tone, only the barest flick of his eyes in Robbie’s direction before returning to whatever’s on his computer screen.</p><p>“Listen, James, about last night—” </p><p>James’ head snaps up as if Robbie has struck him. “There’s nothing to say, sir.”</p><p>“There is. I owe you an explanation. And an apology.”</p><p>“If I’m not mistaken,” James says in his most precisely condescending tone. “We have a suspect waiting in custody. I assume you’ve familiarised yourself with the files I recovered from his flat.”</p><p>Shit. The files must still be in Robbie’s car, completely forgotten in his frantic and fruitless search for James. He tossed the folder in the backseat on the way to class, then tossed the sketchpad on top of it when he left and hasn’t touched either of them since.</p><p>“That’s all right, sir.” James gives him a cold, scathing look. “I’m perfectly capable of handling the interview on my own.”</p><p>Robbie’s bollocksed this up but good. He knew he had. He knew it the day after the first class when he didn’t make the time to tell James right away. He knew waiting was a terrible idea. How could he have thought James was going to take him being in class anything but badly? Yet he’s been telling himself for a week that it will somehow work out. And for what? So he can have a sketchpad of drawings full of James but then lose James? Robbie’s seen that cold look on James’ face directed at many a suspect over the years. He’s seen a hint of it directed at him during cases when James was trying to hide his personal connections to suspects, but this look has nothing to do with a case. Robbie can feel the weight of it in his chest. </p><p>“There’s no need for that,” Robbie says, trying to sound reassuring, reasonable, like he hasn’t done something that may have irrevocably damaged their partnership. “I’ll get the folder—”</p><p>“Do you not trust me to get a confession on my own?” James’ tone is placid as if Robbie is a stranger and James is asking him the time, but Robbie can see the tension in his jaw.</p><p>“Of course I do. Why would you think that?”</p><p>“Sometimes unforeseen events happen that conspire to throw everything previous into question,” James says.</p><p>“James, I—”</p><p>James speaks over him. “I’d like to get on with the interview if it’s all the same to you.”</p><p>“Right,” Robbie says, abashed. Delaying this conversation hasn’t worked out very well so far, but their suspect has been waiting in the cells long enough. Work has to come before sorting out personal issues that Robbie himself has created. “I’ll be back with the folder in half a tick.” He tries to keep his tone light, but the words come out strained and overly bright.</p><p>James stands, tugging his jacket off the back of his chair and pulling it on, that new tension in his shoulders still in evidence. “I’d appreciate it if you could bring the folder to the observation room. I’ll let you know if I need it.” He turns and walks out the door without a backward glance. </p><p>By the time Robbie goes to the carpark, retrieves the folder, and makes it down to the interview suite, James is already sat across from the suspect who is all but squirming under his cold glare. </p><p>Robbie stands in the observation room and waits, folder in hand, for James’ signal, but the signal never comes. James doesn’t need the folder and he doesn’t need Robbie. He is ruthless and efficient, catching the suspect in three different incriminating lies in quick succession. Just the mention of the folder’s contents has the suspect confessing, there’s no need to present the physical pages to him. He knows James has him dead-to-rights. </p><p>When he leaves the interview room with a full confession, James doesn’t even once look toward where Robbie is standing in the observation room. Nor does he wait outside. He’s nothing but a silhouette in tailored trousers disappearing through the door at the end of the corridor as it swings shut behind him. Robbie follows without much hope of catching him up.</p><p>Halfway to their office, Innocent breezes past Robbie in the hallway. Judging by her outfit, she’s on her way to an important function of some sort. “Good result,” she says. </p><p>“Thank you, ma’am.”</p><p>“I want a full briefing tomorrow morning.”</p><p>“Of course,” Robbie calls after her. By her tone, she either hasn’t seen James or he managed to fake normalcy in front of Innocent better than he did with Robbie. Either way, she doesn’t seem to know there’s anything off between them, which means he’s got until tomorrow morning to sort things out. If that’s even possible when he’s screwed up so thoroughly. Whatever he needs to do to fix this, whatever James wants, Robbie will do it. He can’t bear to think that their partnership, their friendship, might end like this.</p><p>James isn’t in the office when Robbie arrives, not that he was expecting him to be; after an hour and a half in the interview room he must have gone out for a smoke. Robbie worries for a moment that James may have left the station altogether. But what’s he going to do about it even if he has? Chase after him? Send more texts and leave more voicemails to be ignored? James has just charged a suspect, he’ll be back to take care of the paperwork. Robbie might as well read over the evidence that will convict him. </p><p>He sits down at his desk, spreads the contents of the folder out in front of him, and begins to read. Half an hour, and a fair amount of damning print evidence later, James reappears bringing more than the usual waft of cigarette smoke with him. He doesn’t acknowledge Robbie, only sits down at his computer and begins typing.</p><p>“That was well done in there,” Robbie says after long minutes of silence punctuated only by the sound of James typing and Robbie flipping over pages in the folder. </p><p>“Thank you, sir,” James replies in the same cold, dismissive tone. He doesn’t look even a little pleased that he’s gotten another murderer off the streets.</p><p>Robbie tries a couple of other conversational gambits; mentions of things in the files he’s reading, complaints about the inevitable cold and drizzly turn the summer weather has taken, and in desperation, referring to the class outright. All of which are met by two and three-word replies and no further engagement. Robbie keeps waiting for James to be finished with the report and cease his typing but it only continues on in a steady drone. James must be on to something else by now. Going by the evidence in the files it’s an open and shut case, there’s no need for lengthy explanations in the report with so much concrete evidence sitting right here in the folder. </p><p>When he’s finished reading the files, Robbie stacks the papers together neatly and closes the folder with an audible clap. James jumps at the sound, his typing faltering for a moment, but he doesn’t look up. </p><p>“Right,” Robbie says, watching James’ jaw clench and unclench as he types. “Lunch at The Trout.”</p><p>“It’s barely noon,” James replies.</p><p>“Aye. Did you have breakfast?” James shakes his head still not meeting Robbie’s eyes. “Neither did I, come on.” Robbie gets up and leaves the office without looking back, not giving James the opportunity to argue further. </p><p>The drive over is possibly the most excruciating twenty minutes of Robbie’s life. </p><p>Before Robbie has pulled to a complete stop, James has the car door open and is striding across the carpark with his coat collar up against the chill. Robbie watches him go, watches James’ hands stuffed in his pockets, the tense line of his shoulders; such a contrast to the relaxed confidence of his stance as a model. Robbie’s ruined that for him. Yet there has to be something more to this. Without a doubt, he was wrong to not have said something the first moment James walked into the classroom in his robe, but he still can’t parse the intensity of James’ reaction. </p><p>It’s a fine English summer day, dreary and overcast, but Robbie is unsurprised to find James at a table at the far end of the empty patio, puffing on a cigarette. He glances up when Robbie puts a pint down in front of him, mumbles <i>cheers</i> without meeting Robbie’s eyes and takes a couple of long draughts. </p><p>Robbie sits and sips his pint. James continues to smoke and avoid his eyes.</p><p>“Ordered you the chicken special,” Robbie says. </p><p>“You didn’t need to do that,” James mutters. </p><p>“Well, too bad, because I did. Now tell me what’s going on.”</p><p>James takes a last drag of his cigarette, stubs it out in the ashtray, and fixes Robbie with a steely look. “I’d say you’ve seen it. Twice.” </p><p>It’s all Robbie can do not to flinch at the hostility in James’ tone, the hurt in his eyes that’s not quite hidden by that hostility. It’s enough to make him want to flee this table like James fled the classroom last night, but he can’t let the wall James has been building between them since yesterday grow too tall to scale. He’s complete rubbish at this sort of thing, but he’s got to make things right somehow. </p><p>“Listen,” Robbie says, turning his glass slowly on the table in front of him. “I should have said something during the first class and I should never have gone to the second. I’ve got no good excuse for why I did.” He takes a sip of his pint and glances up. James’ head is bowed, resolutely not looking at Robbie. He looks miserable. “I’m sorry, James. I don’t know how to make this right. And maybe I can’t but— It was wrong of me to keep on with the course when you thought you were in a room full of strangers. I got caught up in it and you looked so—”</p><p>James’ head snaps up but he doesn’t quite meet Robbie’s eyes. “Don’t say it,” he says, his jaw clenched tight as he fishes another cigarette out of the packet.</p><p>“Beautiful,” Robbie continues, his mouth running on ahead of his brain in his haste to say anything that might remove the hurt look from James’ eyes. That stops James in his tracks. He blinks at Robbie, unlit cigarette dangling from his lip. </p><p>“I—” James starts. He takes the cigarette from his mouth. For a moment, he doesn’t look hurt or angry, only incredulous, disbelieving; as if Robbie’s told him that the sky’s been orange all along when he’s been calling it blue. “You can’t…” He trails off, squinting at the unlit cigarette between his fingers as if there may be some answer there.</p><p>“It can’t have escaped your notice that you’re an attractive man. Laura’s said more than once—”</p><p>“Oh, <i>Laura.</i> Well, good for her,” James says, more than a touch of bitterness in his tone. “You should tell her to sign up too, make a date of it. You can both have a good laugh.”</p><p>“That’s not what I meant,” Robbie says, unable to hide his exasperation.</p><p>This is not going to plan, next will be the shouting. James with his hackles up always makes Robbie want to push, to argue. He’s meant to be apologising here and he’s making a right hash of it. He’ll be gutted if this is the end to their friendship. And friendship doesn’t even begin to cover what he feels for James. James is important to him, more than important. He’s got workmates and acquaintances, friends like Laura, but James… James is <i>James</i>, a category unto himself. A friend, yes, but also more than that. His partner, but more than that as well. He and Morse had an understanding that many inspectors and sergeants never do, but with James, there’s an intimacy, a comfort to being around him that goes deeper even than that. The thought of James not being around, even a James who is argumentative and closed-off, the thought of their friendship souring and James no longer coming by his flat of an evening… It makes something tighten in Robbie’s chest. He doesn’t even want to contemplate it. </p><p>James lights the cigarette he’s been toying with and takes a long drag, gazing past Robbie toward the river. The tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease. </p><p>Robbie takes a fortifying sip of his pint. “Look, James, I’m sorry. Truly sorry. I know there’s nothing I can say. There’s no excuse I can give. It’s, well—” He takes a deep breath. “You’re my best mate and if I’ve bollocksed this up to the point where you don’t want to see me, well, it’s my own fault and I’ll deal with it but I’ll miss your company. I’ll miss you standing in my kitchen and chiding me for the lack of veg in my diet, I’ll miss our squash games even though I’ll never win, I’ll miss those nights we get takeaway and go to mine after a long day and drink too much beer and you end up spending the night on the sofa. I’ll miss your spare suit hanging in the hall cupboard so you don’t have to go home before work on mornings after you’ve stayed over. I’ll miss working with you, but I’ll miss those other things more. I know I’m the one in the wrong, but if I drop the course and we never speak of this again do you think we could get back there someday? To being friends?”</p><p>“Sir,” James says. His expression has softened and so has his tone, he sounds almost wistful. He takes a long drag of his cigarette and meets Robbie’s eyes for the first time since he saw Robbie sitting in class last night. He looks almost hopeful but then turns away again, looking out over the river. His gaze turns contemplative; the sort of look that means he’s got something significant to say and he’s working out how to say it.</p><p>Of course, the waitress chooses that moment to bring out their food. The contemplative look leaves James’ face at the interruption. He stubs out his cigarette and concentrates on his meal. Robbie figures that will be the end of that. He wants to know why James reacted the way he did, but he has no right to ask for an explanation. He’ll settle for this less skittish James and a comfortable silence over lunch; for the possibility that he hasn’t done irrevocable damage to their friendship. </p><p>Robbie’s halfway through his meal when James puts his knife and fork down with a clank, looking up at Robbie with resolve. </p><p>“I’m sorry—” James begins.</p><p>“There’s no need—” Robbie cuts across him. “I was the one—”</p><p>“I know, but let me finish,” James says, with a look that’s half admonishing, half pleading. Robbie sets down his fork and shuts his mouth. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I’m just—” James ducks his head and taps at the handle of his fork making it clink against the plate. “It sounds ridiculous but being a life model is a very private thing for me. I know that doesn’t make any sense with fifteen people looking at me in the nude but—” James hesitates for a moment as if gathering his thoughts. “I’ve never tried to explain it to someone else but there’s something freeing about it. Like I am myself but also not.”</p><p>James shakes his head, lets out a small huff of a laugh, and drinks the last mouthful of his beer. “Standing up there under the lights, picking a pose and holding it for a set time regardless of what’s going on in the room around me— It’s meditative, but I also can’t get too far inside my own head because I have a responsibility to the students, to the instructor and that’s… It’s calming to have only that one simple obligation for the length of the class, it’s a bit of a relief.” James sighs, then his expression turns serious and he looks straight at Robbie, imploring. “Don’t tell anyone down the nick. <i>Please</i>.”</p><p>“Of course not, lad.” </p><p>“Thank you.” James flashes him a small smile and Robbie realises how much he’d been dreading the possibility that he’d never see James smile at him like that again. James pulls another cigarette out of the packet that’s lying next to his empty pint. He twirls it in his fingers and taps it against the packet a couple of times then lights it. “I should have known,” he says, almost under his breath as he inhales.</p><p>“Known what?”</p><p>“That you’d be— You, I suppose.” James shakes his head and looks out over the river again. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”</p><p>“Hard work and perseverance?” </p><p>James snorts. “Possibly.” </p><p>“Can I ask how you started?” Robbie wasn’t going to bring it up, but James mentioned it first and he is more than a little curious about how a former seminarian ends up a life model.</p><p>James gives Robbie a look of mild disbelief as if he thinks Robbie’s humouring him, but he answers anyway. “First time was on a dare while I was at Cambridge. Turned out to be a not bad experience. The instructor was surprised I’d never modelled before. She said I had a natural talent, that a lot of first-time models have trouble not being distracted by the room.”</p><p>Robbie chuckles. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Nothing, only— Of course, you had a natural talent for life modelling.” James bows his head with that shy smile that means he doesn’t know what to do with the compliment. For someone who’s talented at so many things, he is so often startled by praise. “So you kept on?”</p><p>“Yeah. It was a good way to earn a few extra quid that didn’t conflict with rowing. And then, you know,” James shrugs and takes a drag of his cigarette.</p><p>“Even while you were at seminary?”</p><p>“If we come into this world naked how can that not also be divine?”</p><p>Robbie’s not sure if that’s meant to be a yes or a no. “Wouldn’t have thought they’d go in for that sort of thing.”</p><p>“They didn’t. Life modelling wasn’t an appropriate activity. I didn’t start up again until a couple of years ago. You remember Philip Horton?”</p><p>“You modelled for him?”</p><p>“No, he didn’t need a model, he only has to look at someone once. But I hadn’t thought much about art or modelling since I’d joined the force. He reminded me.” James shrugs, his voice going quiet. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that. If you were going to— I would have wanted it to be… different.” He shakes his head. “I understand why you want to drop the course.” </p><p>Robbie scoffs. “I was going to drop the course because it was an invasion of your privacy not because…” Because he very much enjoyed looking at James’ naked body and not only from the standpoint of art. Because he’d like to do it again but only if James wants him to. He waves his hand in James’ direction trying to encompass the things he shouldn’t say.</p><p>James bows his head. “There’s no need to spare my feelings.”</p><p>“I’m not… It was— it was a pleasure to draw you, James. I wouldn’t mind doing it again.” </p><p>James stubs out his cigarette and looks up at Robbie, holding Robbie’s gaze for a charged moment, his lips slightly parted as if he’s about to speak, but he says nothing. There’s tension between them again, but it’s not the fraught tension of the morning, this is something new. Something delicate, precarious even, and a bit anticipatory. </p><p>“Same again?” James gestures to their empty pints. </p><p>Robbie is about to say they’d better not, it’s still hours until quitting time, but James just charged a suspect and it feels as if they’re on the cusp of something. He’s not going to be able to concentrate on performance assessments with the thoughts that are swirling around in his head. And the fact that James is suggesting a pint, not that they go back to the nick… </p><p>“Aye, go on then.”</p><p>James gives him a tentative smile as he leaves the table.</p><p>The sky has brightened somewhat by the time James returns with their pints. It’s still overcast, but not quite as oppressively so. James plunks the pints down on the table and sits, hands resting on the bench on either side of him, not making a move to drink his pint and not quite looking at Robbie.</p><p>Robbie sips his pint and waits him out.</p><p>After a few minutes of silence, James says, “You said we could never speak of this again.”</p><p>“Of course.” Robbie tries to not let his disappointment show. He’d thought they were getting somewhere; tenuous steps toward something he isn’t going to name. Now that it seems to be gone before it’s even started, he realises how very much he wants it. “Say the word and it’s forgotten.”</p><p>“Good.” James nods and picks up his pint, puts it down again without taking a drink, and begins picking at the beermat. </p><p>“Okay. It’s forgotten, then.”</p><p>James’ head snaps up. “No! I didn’t mean— Not unless— I need to know that if it doesn’t go well we could still go back to how it was.”</p><p>“Nothing’s changed, lad.”</p><p>James shakes his head and drinks down half of his pint in one go. “Not yet anyway.” That doesn’t half sound ominous. </p><p>“Nothing needs to change either.”</p><p>“What if we want it to?”</p><p>Robbie doesn’t miss James’ use of ‘we’ instead of ‘I’. “Suppose it could, then.” </p><p>James nods, still fidgeting with the beermat. “When you said you wouldn’t mind drawing me again, what did you mean?”</p><p>“That I wouldn’t. Mind.”</p><p>“You’d enjoy it?”</p><p>“Aye, I would. Very much.”</p><p>James nods again and downs the rest of his pint. He sets the empty glass on the shredded beermat with a clunk and meets Robbie’s eyes. He looks resolved and more than a little bit terrified. “What if there was no drawing?”</p><p>“No drawing?” Robbie’s voice comes out strange, almost choked. He takes a sip of his pint. He knows what he wants James to mean by that. But what if that’s not what James means? James is young and fit, awkward yes, but young and fit goes a long way to overcoming awkward. Robbie is on the cusp of retirement and though not in terrible shape for his age, he’s got nothing on James. They are friends, he’s not imagining that, but could James spending time with Robbie outside work be more than that? Could Robbie be even a fraction as important to James as James is to him? </p><p>“Sorry.” The expectant look on James’ face dims and Robbie realises he’s staring at the lad with his mouth hanging open. “I knew you wouldn’t— Forget it.”</p><p>“James,” Robbie says. There’s something in his chest making it hard to breathe. “I don’t want to forget it.”</p><p>James looks up at him slowly. “You don’t?”</p><p>“No.” Robbie shakes his head. James looks hopeful again and Robbie loves that look. He loves him. <i>Christ</i>. He really does love him, he can feel it filling his chest; an overwhelming affection that he can hardly remember not feeling for James. It’s too much to even begin to put to words. “I wouldn’t mind… not drawing you. If you wouldn’t mind me…” Robbie gestures between them in a way he hopes expresses all the things he can’t quite say. </p><p>The hint of a smile plays across James’ lips again, then grows wider and turns cheeky, a blush creeping up his ears. “Are you saying you wouldn’t be opposed to a private session?”</p><p>“Aye,” Robbie says, more grateful than he’s ever been for how well they’re able to communicate without words when they’re on the same page. “Something like that.”</p><p>James’ smile, if possible, grows even wider. </p><p>____</p>
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